


our demons will dance

by JaguarCello



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, To Be Continued, we all have our demons and some howl in our heads and some hide behind our courage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler snapped the last of his rubber bands today, and he needs it more than ever. Kent just needs the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our demons will dance

There was blood underneath his fingernails, dried into the creases of his palms and crusted in the whorls of his fingerprints, from where he had pressed his hands to the gaping stomach of a dying man, and the station bathroom stank of rust. He sniffed at his thumb, and retched, spitting bile into the sink, and then shoved his hands under the tap once more. The water ran red, and he looked at himself in the mirror – shirtless, chest heaving, eyes wide and staring, and almost laughed.

  There was a knock at the door. “Sir?” said Kent, through the closed door. "Sorry, I need the bathroom - are you - well, I can come back later," he muttered; his voice was muffled, and Chandler sighed, before forcing his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. His hands were still shaking though, and he dropped a cufflink with a clatter, and watched it roll underneath the lip of the sink-stand.

“Wait a second, Kent,” he managed, but he had snapped the last rubber band earlier that day, and his hands were too big to fit under the sink. “Kent,” he said again, and held the door-handle for a moment before opening the door. “You’ve got smaller hands than I have. I know it looks crazy, but could you – could you please retrieve something for me?” Kent’s hair was still damp from the rain that had lashed at the bloody puddles on the street outside, and he was shivering, but he nodded, and stepped inside.

“I dropped a cufflink, and I know you’re not, you know, in the best situation yourself but it will honestly take a minute,” and Kent just nodded again.

 “Under here, sir?” he asked, before crouching down and extending an arm under the sink. His shirt-sleeves – off the peg, not tailored, Chandler noted, before chastising himself – slid upwards to reveal thin wrists, with veins stretched tight under pale skin, but before Chandler could catalogue any more he saw the glint of metal, clutched in Kent’s long fingers. “Got it?” he asked, and imagined the snap of the rubber band against his arm, and took the cufflink – fingers brushing, and Kent looked up as if he’d been struck – and put it on without thinking about washing it.

 “Thank you, Kent. Emerson. Good work – today, I mean.” he said, cursing the public-school education that had left him with an accent like cut glass and the social skills of a mollusc, but Kent smiled as if he’d promoted him to DSI on the spot, and ducked his head, dark hair curling a little behind his ears. 

 “Shame he got away, though,” Kent added, after a pause. “I mean, he died, but then we have a reputation for that, haven’t we? And he killed – well, we’ll never know, I suppose. Acid baths seem to do the trick,” and he looked at Chandler to see he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

 “You alright, sir? Do you need a drink?” he asked, but Chandler didn’t look up, and instead was focused on flicking a piece of paper – what looked like a folded-up receipt – between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and so Kent leaned up to fill a glass with water, before sitting back down on the floor next to his boss. Chandler was counting under his breath.

 “Sir?” he said again, and Chandler turned to look at him.

 “Kent, you know I have – well, we all have our demons, I suppose. Sanders can’t keep a goldfish happy, let alone a wife. Buchan is so very lonely that sometimes, he sits in the archives room and cries, a little. He blames it on the dust. Ray is tired of this all, but would never admit it, and you cry at crime scenes – “

 “I cry at murder scenes. Not at common-or-garden crimes – not at, say, a burglary,” Kent retorted, but his tone was gentle. “And you, sir,” he prompted, and Chandler looked away.

 “I have – well, you know what I have. And I know acceptance is the first stage to recovery, and all that tosh, but I have rituals to do and rules to follow and reasons to do so.” He shrugged, and reached out to slide the glass six inches across the floor, to where the floor-tiles joined in a cross. “And I can’t stop myself, not any more.”

 Kent ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “There’s help – I saw some leaflets, you know when I got stabbed? They made me see a psychiatrist, for suspected PTSD, and there are all sorts of help out there. Therapy, even,” and then he fell silent. “Morgan Lamb told you this, didn’t she?”

 Chandler’s eyes flickered across the room, settling on a spot above the cistern of the toilet. “I don’t want to talk about Morgan Lamb, and especially not with you,” he said, firmly, and stood up. He wasn’t shaking, but he was still counting each flick of his fingers under his breath, and when he shut the door behind him, Kent heard the faint ghost of a knock. 

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me


End file.
